


The Oxen and the Lion

by squirrellysemantics



Category: Dragon Age, Dragon Age II
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Hurt/Comfort, Mild Gore, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-27
Updated: 2013-03-27
Packaged: 2017-12-06 15:50:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/737428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/squirrellysemantics/pseuds/squirrellysemantics
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It started out as a rather ordinary day, as Varric remembers it.  </p>
<p>Same old jokes with Hawke. Take out a few soldiers with a quip and a smile. Listen to Anders and Fenris peck at each other like a pair of old hens.</p>
<p>But a trap they don't see coming is sprung and nothing is ordinary when Hawke is in danger.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Oxen and the Lion

**Author's Note:**

> All mistakes are mine. Characters property of Bioware

Varric downs the last of his potions, but this battle ain’t over yet. Still, he smiles, tapping into the welcome boost in strength with another caress for Bianca and she answers, which means-

“Another one for me! How many have you got, Hawke?

It’s a game of sorts, this goading each other onwards.  A way to take down the brutality of the fight because if they don’t, the amount of blood they spill would drive the sanest of them mad.

And few the Champion of Kirkwall called friend could legitimately claim much sanity to start.

Today, though, plays out with a savagery that rivals anything in recent memory. They face a strange blend of foes- a few soliders here, a few demons there- but the end result so far is much the same bodies litter the ground in numbers that make it difficult to tread.  They’d been fighting so long that the sun drops in the sky to threaten to leave them all in the dark and that would never do.

The pockets of the dead yield nothing of use for the living and Varric rifles through one after the other and comes up empty.

Strange.

Who would be so foolish to ill equip so many before driving them to their death? 

Some cheap bastard, probably. Skimping on the extra coin when life comes so cheap that you can throw out one fool after another.

Sure, that was the answer. 

Well.  Maybe if they were lucky.

Or stupid.

This wave of soldiers dwindles in number yet the morons keep coming and Varric knows he’s not the only one ready to drop.  That Hawke has yet to respond with his usual antics is proof enough that he too is running out of steam and for a man with a mouth like Hawke to stay silent brings bad portents indeed.

The two that don’t seem to have a problem are the Constipated Twins.  Varric looks them over, marveling at how after all this, the mage and elf find the energy to peck at each other’s heels like a pair of crabby, old hens between each blow they strike.

Fenris hefts his absurdly large blade in an even more absurdly large circle and no one finds any humor as he cleaves through flesh.

“Your attacks grow sloppy, mage,” he barks with a show of his usual wealth of charm. “A slight chill to the air won't stop this lot.”

Hmm.  Easy to notice the tip of his blade wavering as the elf struggles to catch his breath when you’re trying to look for it.

Now Varric _knows_ something is wrong when Anders merely glares back.  Well, not the glare, because that happens a lot ever since he started talking about that recipe from some weird mage-y Tevinter potion, but it’s the fact that Anders hasn’t got anything to _say_.

And then Anders delivers a laugh drier than the stone beneath their feet with no actual laughter in it and it sends a shiver up Varric’s spine.

A wave of the mage’s hands lets loose shards of ice and death that sends Fenris dancing backwards. While Varric holds his breath, the surge of magic misses the elf entirely, snuffing out a swarm of demons arising from where the startled swordsman once stood and the dwarf can breathe again.

A quick glance shows no more enemies to be found and Anders bestows Fenris with a beatific smile.

“Which one of us is getting sloppy _now_?” Anders manages through a smirk. 

Varric sees here too the telltale signs of exhaustion when the human keeps himself standing by letting his mage’s staff bear all of his weight.

Anders dusts down his coat. “Those demons would have your balls for a purse if I hadn’t-“

This contempt gets cut off by an elven roar.

Lyrium markings fully ablaze and Fenris flies through the air to round on Anders.

This can’t be good.

The elf lands a devastating blow, but it’s not mage blood that’s shed.  A rogue still half in shadow finds a painful end from a fist etched in lyrium.

The daggers she held poised to pierce Anders in between his ribs fall to the ground in a clatter.

 “You were saying?” Fenris sneers and he dumps one last body to the pile-

But running with this crowd means that this one wasn’t truly the last. 

Not even close.

How obvious it was when Varric looked back on this day and this…

These are the days where storytelling can be a burden as much as it is a gift.

Almost a curse, really, when the mind snaps up every moment like a greedy child. 

You remember it all.  Good and bad.

And what happens next fell into the latter.  Memories that Varric never wanted would play out over and over behind his eyes every time he tries to rest. Sometimes it’s best to recount what happens, to ease the burden-

But this story …

This is a story Varric ends up sharing with no one.

This day started very ordinary and this very instant is so very typical as Hawke favors his two bickering children with an indulgent smile. 

“Play nice, you tw-“

What Hawke means to say remains unfinished and the bolt that buries itself in the chest takes them all by surprise.

His armor is an afterthought and the color drains from his handsome face, only to be filled with confusion instead.  Hawke’s hand comes up, reaching for the silver bolt buried in his sternum but his fingers flex uselessly through the fountain of blood.

It’s a picture that burns itself into Varric’s memory but it’s the sounds that will stay with him for weeks to come.

The broken breath that Hawke draws, the wheeze as he tries to let it out but it will not come.

Hawke looks the dwarf in the eye. That single look is full of half-formed good byes, loaded with regret and the man has one weakened, infinitesimally small request.

“run”

The big man topples like a felled oak.

Shock releases its grip and a name sounds out in concert.

“ _Hawke_!”

There’s so much ground to cover but that doesn’t stop those who try to reach him from trying.

The dwarf is closest, bearing the brunt of the bigger man’s weight to ease the trembling body the rest of the way to the ground.

The elf turns his eyes again to the shadows and just outside his range, he catches the glint of an ornate crossbow returning to its place on a stout man’s back. “There!”

The mage says nothing– nothing coherent, at least. Instead, his cry is fierce and full of fury and the heat of the blast he lets fly turns the killer into a pile of ash.

Hawke takes the full of their focus now and between one heartbeat and the next, they watch his skin turn to wax and his breaths come few and far between.

Only now does Varric get a closer look at what threatens to take Hawke’s life and it is anything but ordinary. The bolt is thicker than it needs to be for such distance targeting, heavier by the look of it, too, like the ones more suited to hunting in close quarters, rather than the range an assassin chose to attack. Stranger still that such a thing came with its own filigree of what can only be lyrium.

A trap.  From start to finish, this all stank of the worst kind of trap.

Someone sent a horde after them so as not to notice the hunter after some very specific prey.

Fenris falls to his knees at Hawke’s side but something makes him hesitate.

“This is no ordinary bolt.” 

He looks to Varric.

“This is what they wanted all along,” he states flatly, echoing the thought Varric mulls over himself.

A visceral noise fights its way out of Anders once his magic flares over the prone body at his feet. His work returns a modicum of color returning to Hawke’s features but the injured man is no closer to wakefulness.

Anders directs his power to encircle the bolt yet the energy fizzles away no matter how many times he tries. His face pulls up in a puzzled squint at the fallen figure and he sees… something.

Whatever he finds makes his face fall and a name slips out of him, grief making his voice rough as sandpaper.

“ _Hawke_ -“ 

Fenris lashes out, his patience run dry. “Why do you hesitate? Heal him and let’s be on our way!”

“It’s not as simple as that,” the mage says to an audience that doesn’t want to believe him. “The bolt is warded. I cannot move it by magic.”

“Then I will do it!” Fenris snarls. “This accursed thing needs to come out _now_!”

Even as he reaches to pull it free, something stirs as Fenris draws closer.

A twitch starts in Hawke’s limbs and they worsen at the elf’s proximity. 

The motion catches them all off guard and the whole of the man jerks.

Fenris rocks back at the body flailing beneath him until there is enough distance that Hawke falls into stillness once more.

A shared glance between the three and Varric is quick to try himself but the same tremblors barely begin before he thinks better of it and withdraws to a safe distance.

Fenris is genuine in his horror. “What evil is this?”

Varric begins his opinion with a few choice curses. “The kind that really wants to make sure Hawke ends up dead.”

“Not if I have anything to say about it!” Anders counters and his anger acts as a new source of strength.

He draws his power to him, this force glowing and growing until energy swarms around him like a swarm of hornets made of lightning.

Precious seconds tick by and Hawke is just as pale, just as unconscious.

“It.. I don’t understand!”  Anders pushes through gritted teeth, passing his magic over Hawke again and again and again.  “I heal him, yet the wounds return as quickly as I manage it…like… like something’s in there to cause damage yet again-”

Anders swallows thickly and a hint of real fear shows through the cracks in his bravado. “I’ve never seen anything like this.”

“No surprise there!” Fenris spits, spoiling for a fight but he will not leave Hawke’s side. “We should hurry him to a _proper_ healer! I will not stand by and do nothing while he bleeds out before our very eyes! What use are you when your wits are so addled that you do not recognize dark magic when you see it?”

_“NO._ _”_  

The answer is uttered by Anders but it is not Anders who speaks it.

_“YOU UNDERSTAND LITTLE, ELF._ _”_

The battle within Anders nearly splits his body at the seams as Justice awakens.

_“A SEED HAS BEEN PLANTED. SOMETHING OLD, OLD AS TIME, STIRS WITHIN HIM AND WE WORK TO STOP IT FEEDING ON THE VERY MARROW OF HIS BONES._ _”_

Fenris refuses to be cowed and Anders or Justice or whoever this furious amalgam is shines like the sun.

_“NOW BE SILENT! I WILL NOT PERMIT YOUR IGNORANT POSTURING TO DISTRACT ME FURTHER-_ “

Varric dresses himself up in conviviality and he prays this mask doesn’t slip. “C’mon, guys! There’s been an awful lot of uninvited guests at this party and squabbling amongst ourselves won’t help Hawke worth a damn.”

Something clicks in Anders and he manages to wrest back what he can of his fragile control, his robes reeking of sweat. He turns his efforts back to doing what he can for the fallen man, still fighting for air of his own.

“Any other options?” Fenris demands through the silence, though he’s lost all of his bite. His long fingers rest as close to the bolt as he dares, caked in blood that is not his own. “We must do something.”

“We will,” Varric murmurs, thoughts windmilling through his head. He invents and discards one idea after another until-

“Or at least one of us will,” he starts softly, staring at Fenris all the while. ”Can’t touch this thing directly either physically or by magic. But maybe you’ve got another way-”

The elf watches him right back through narrowed eyes.  “You’re not suggesting-”

“Yes!” Anders chews at the sweat beading on his lip, the suggestion reinvigorating him tenfold.

“There’s little that can ward against phasing through matter,” the mage thinks aloud, with more energy than he’s had since this nightmare began. “They may not be able to prevent Fenris from reaching it before the thing tries tearing Hawke apart.”

Fenris hangs on this for the briefest of moments. “Perhaps.”

He lights up in a pale cerulean as his decision comes quickly, but there is still some hesitation as Fenris reaches for the bolt.  Not for himself, though his skin must be on fire, but he moves as if swimming through treacle, with such painstaking care. Moving forward, he searches for any hint his movements cause distress and only proceeds when finding none.  His hand closes around the bolt just above where it exits Hawke’s skin and there is still no thrashing, no shaking and it bolsters them all. 

“I have it!” Fenris proclaims in relief, but this triumph does not last. He pulls and tugs with not inconsiderable strength and the bolt moves not at all, like a blade trapped in stone.  One last try and it creates a revolting gurgle out of Hawke as Fenris fairly lifts him from the ground by the damned thing.

 This time the bolt stays and it’s Fenris that goes, retreating into a tightly wound ball of limbs.

“What now?” Fenris asks, unable to take his eyes from Hawke as his lyrium fades.

Varric looks to Anders and the answer weighs down their silence like a giant albatross. 

“ _No!_ _”_ Fenris is no fool and he turns as savage as his namesake. “You mean for me to phase _into_ Hawke to retrieve this blasted thing? You do not know what you ask!”

“It will work!” Anders keeps his focus on wielding his magic over Hawke yet still manages to take stabs from over his shoulder. “Or at least, we won’t know if unless you try and every minute you dawdle brings Hawke closer to death, you insufferable little-”

“Hey now!” Varric jumps in, eager to broker the peace before these two tear each other apart. “Don’t take this the wrong way, Blondie, but _shut your damned trap_!”

The dwarf turns, feeling his way through a heavily mined path that could easily explode in his face.

“Fenris, we’re hurting for options right now,” he begins.

The elf listens in silence but his guard is fully up.

“You’re the only chance we’ve got,” Varric continues, watching for any opening but he knows what he’s up against.

Varric can’t – _won_ _’t_ \- imagine what it’s like.

To reach through flesh.

To rip it apart.

But this is all they have, and they all need to do what they must.

Varric steels himself to continue and he is keenly aware of the elf’s eyes on him.

“I’ve heard you and Rivaini talk, Fenris. This isn’t some drunken fight between pirates but maybe Isabela has the right of it. Would it really be so terrible if you had to… poke around for a bit if you could get that thing out of there?”

Fenris wraps his answer in a snarl and throws it back at them.

“Shall I blindly fumble through Hawke’s innards, then?”  

He looks upon the man in question to see his friend so pale and wan and very, very still and the anger that inflames Fenris withers away to nothing.

“I’m of no use to you,” he says far too softly.  “I cannot see through the damage I cause, only the pain I cause.”

Fenris picks up the pieces of his composure and arranges them back into a shield.

“No good can come of this. I will not torture him only to kill him outright!”

“You won’t kill him,” Anders murmurs back, solid in his certainty.  “I won’t let you.”

A simple exchange, but loaded with enough threat that Fenris stabs back.

“Save your strength for Hawke! What we _should_ be doing is getting him away from here to the care of someone more competent!”

“No, no, no, no, _no_!” Anders shouts with a shake of the head and no one is precisely clear to whom he is speaking.

Perhaps not even Anders.

Small, fine tendrils escape the clasp Anders uses to keep his hair in check and they mat down against the sheen on his forehead as he begins again, exposing how much he frays at the edges.

“Do you have a circle of mages in your pocket?” he asks, taking great big lungfuls of air as he rallies his strength. “Because that’s what you’ll need to break this.  This is the only way! It won’t be easy for either of us, but I can help Fenris- help him save Hawke- but we’ll have to be quick because-“

The bite to him fades as the light shining from his hands sputters like a dying candle.

“I… I don’t know how much longer I can last-“

“What have you got, Blondie?” Varric prompts gently but he knows this encouragement will only hasten the mage’s unraveling.

But Varric does what he must.

“The bolt… the bolt is key to this,” Anders says his eyes fully ablaze.

“Whatever _this_ is. I _see_ it fight.

His words come out in fits and spurts.

“Every bit of torn flesh.  I fix. It shreds more. Every jagged piece of bone.  I mend.  This _thing_ laughs and devours another. It all comes from _that_ arrow.”

Saying even this much tires the mage and Varric likes this not at all.

“Whatever is in there is _alive_?” Varric adds, not so sure he truly wishes to know.

“ _Yes_ ,” Anders says and the idea of something living, breathing, _eating_ Hawke from the inside brings up bile in them all. “Justice was right. It grows. I see it. Make _him_ see it too.” 

The tinge of venom makes it all too clear to which _him_ Anders refers.

Fenris has a snarl for this before the sentiment gets to finish.

“How do you plan that?  Reach inside my mind?  Turn me into your puppet so you can blame me for taking Hawke’s life? If you can see as much as you claim, then guide me! Simply tell me where to go and it will be done!”

“I…I _can_ _’t_!”

Anders falls into a stammer of open agony, the whole of him shaking in effort as he tries to battle whatever he sees within Hawke.

“What I see… You wouldn’t believe me if I - I won’t..”

 “It’s all right, Anders.”  Varric reaches out though he knows that there’s no truth to that at all. The contact soothes the mage, at least, as if he were a frightened horse in need of settling.

Problem is there’s more than one beast that needs tending and Varric divides his attention, but the elf has eyes only for Hawke. Or rather, eyes only for the stain his friend leaves behind and Fenris sits unblinking at the fallen human’s side.

“Fenris?” Varric whispers, a small pit of hate opening in his gut at knowing precisely how gentle he must be with the elf to get what they all need from him.  “Are you okay?”

Fenris doesn’t answer.

Or the real truth is that he does, but not in the way expected.

The elf leans forward with a haggard hesitation, giving the bolt a wide berth, and he brings himself to Hawke’s ear. Varric has a keen ear but still he cannot hear a thing from the lips that move, but he damn well isn’t blind and even he has limits to his prying.

Whatever Fenris has to say is for Hawke and for Hawke alone and Varric grants them that much, at least.

It feels like an eternity but Varric knows it’s nothing of the sort and the markings that line the elf’s skin spring to life. A long, slow breath escapes him and he looks out at nothing in a tight, sad line before he finally speaks to them all.

“Do it.”

So it comes down to this. 

A human with magic that does him no good though he’ll keep using it until it drives him to ruin.

An elf cornered into using a power to save a life when he only knows it as bringing death.

A dwarf who pushes them down a path that leads to somewhere no one knows.

They all have their part to play, it seems and this is how it begins.

Anders is too far gone to find his voice but the shake in his hands say plenty as he touches the elf’s shoulder and then-

And then for one beautiful, terrible moment, light engulfs them all.

Throwing an arm up keeps Varric from being blinded but this passes quickly and he blinks away the ghosts so he may see.

The results are… unexpected in some ways, and not in others.

Anders still stands but barely. He could easily pass for falling asleep on his feet- nearly slumped, face shuttered closed- if one was too much a fool to see his magic still radiating from him.  His body becomes secondary to the task at hand and he pours his life into this until his aura feeds into Fenris and Fenris-

Fenris _glows_ and it is not just the markings on his skin that have gone incandescent. Light shoots from his insides, spearing out from everywhere -eyes, ears, nose, and mouth- almost like a creature possessed. 

Varric examines the connection between elf and mage with a cautious eye and can’t help but wonder if it’s exactly like a creature possessed.

Shockingly, all of this transpires in silence, but with his head tossed back, elven features twist up in what can only be agony and Fenris pushes through it inch by terrible inch.

It isn’t pretty when Fenris passes his hand into flesh.  Blood spurts freely and nothing about it is gentle no matter how Fenris tries to make it so. 

And gentle it is not.

Hawke goes rigid, heels digging in until he arches up from the ground but Varric jumps in and wrestles him in place as best he can with Bianca on his back. It puts the dwarf in front row seats for the worst of it and what he bears witness to is not something he ever wishes to see again.

He watches Fenris pull as he’d done before, but where the elf reaches within Hawke is not precisely near the bolt.

Turns out this has a very good reason for that.

“Andraste’s tits!” 

That’s all Varric lets out but he’d much rather it be that rather than puke his guts out like he wishes to at the sight of what Fenris holds in his blood stained hands.

A serpent’s tail.

At least, that’s what it most looks like, though it is yellower and greasier than any serpent Varric has ever seen and Fenris continues to draw it out until what emerges grows to the thickness of his wrist with infinite slowness.

This… this _thing_ does not appreciate the interruption and what’s left buried of the creature thrashes _within_ Hawke.  It’s either Hawke or this creature that reacts to this as torture but the difference matters little when Varric dodges the fists beating at him as best he can to keep Hawke pinned in place.

So close to the end one way or the other.  Anders falls to all fours, pale as a ghost, but still he holds on, while Fenris burns himself alive to uncoil this horror that does not wish to be disturbed.

Precious seconds hang in the balance and feeling helpless is not something Varric is used to. He reaches for the only weapon he has that might be of any use to them now.

“Fenris! Anders!” he shouts. “You’re almost there! Keep going!”

So much sacrifice from these two, so willing to give up their lives for one man. What is Varric’s price in all this?

He gives up a bit of his soul and wonders if he’s about to shove dear friends headlong into the arms of the Maker.

_“_ Don’t fail him now!” he says, hoping they hear him.

Whether they hear him or not, the bolt twitches as Fenris pulls and the two give their all, though they’re not yet done.

So close.  So close.

Varric aims for the heart and twists the knife.

_“Hawke_ _needs you_!”

He feels the result before he sees it- Hawke gone limp in his arms- and with nothing but blood soaking the man, Varric fears the worst.

There’s no time to be sure. No time for anything at all because-

-the bolt is out and Fenris chokes out a cry but the light that burns within him doesn’t fade and what he holds is the stuff of nightmares and this serpent opens what must be its mouth it _screams_ and it spirals around the elf’s forearm and he tries and tries to shake it, to scrape the thing off but it refuses to come free and Anders tries and tries himself but he falls with one last burst of power until he collapses to the ground but the creature slits open a section of lyrium marked skin and starts to _tunneltunneltunnel_ its way in-

There’s another weapon Varric has use of after all, it seems, and Bianca lets an arrow fly.

The force of impact rips the monster loose and it shrieks in fury at being denied.

Fenris drops like a puppet with its strings cut, but Varric cannot attend to him either when he must see this through.  Varric takes one step then another over the bodies of his friends and fires round after round into the thing and Varric does not stop until there is hardly any serpent left to target as Bianca makes a pin cushion of it.

Reclaiming his breath is hard when the air itself is tainted with blood and Varric casts an eye to find himself the last one standing.

This can’t be it.

There needs to be more to this story.

A glint of silver catches his eye near the bloody smear of what’s left of the serpent and he pockets the bolt without a second thought.

He fights his way to Anders to find a pulse and relief threatens to bowl him over when he does.  Checking Fenris comes next and for the first time ever, Varric delights in the need to fashion a bandage, since a prerequisite for tending wounds was that the person be alive.  The sleep they sleep is a deep one but it’s one from which they’ll wake and that’s all that ma-

A weakened cough is the sweetest sound to Varric’s ears. 

“Hawke?”

Another cough comes and Hawke’s eyes flutter open, the color of life slowly returning to his cheeks.

Varric moves quickly for one of his kind and he’s at the man’s side with the dizziest of smiles.

“Take it easy, big guy.”

Hawke isn’t one to listen but his body is too depleted to do much of anything but listen for once.  “What… what happened?”

There will be time enough for the truth later. Varric pulls his smile wider but he retreats behind his humor.

“We got into a spot of trouble. The important thing is that everyone made it out ok, but you ended up looking like the wrong end of a bronto.  Though I’m not sure there’s a right end to a bronto, really… Aaand I’m not entirely sure you didn’t look like that when this whole thing started. Humans. All look alike after a while-”

The wheeze of a laugh is welcome but the questions Hawke have are not. “And the others?  Where are they?”

“They’ll be fine,” Varric answers with a confidence he does not feel. “Never you mind. Rest now.”

With the nod of an exhausted child, Hawke reaches true rest at last.

Varric watches him drift off and finds the length of silver in his pocket. 

Which reminds him….

Wandering the line of trees, he twirls the source of their misery between his fingers until he finds a pile of embers that still stinks of smoke.

“There you are.”

The crossbow that fired the bolt shows some of scorch marks but is otherwise unharmed. Red cedar with silver inlays of the highest quality and he recognizes the pattern of more than one Rune of Devastation.

Bianca would be jealous.

The weapon carries the mark of expert craftsmanship, but whose hands they are remains far from clear.

Varric could spend a week or more simply studying it.

But not now.  Now the sun has nearly set and he has different duties.

 “Guess, it’s just you and me, old girl,” Varric says and he rises with Bianca to stand guard until morning. 

**Author's Note:**

> Late to Dragon Age and here I am dipping my toe in the fandom pool for the first time. Feedback greatly appreciated.


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